Playing Catch
by pgrabia
Summary: Wilson sees through House's masquerade.  Post-ep fic for episode 8x15: Blowing the Whistle.  H/W friendship-UST.  Spoilers for all seasons up to/incl. season 8 ep. 15.  Warning: one F-bomb.


**Title:** **Playing Catch**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer**: House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Spoiler** **Alert**: This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 8, Episode 15: Blowing the Whistle.

**Word Count: **~3800

**Rating**: **T(PG-13) **for Adult subject matter, f-bomb.

**A/N:** A post-episode fic. The idea came to me and just wouldn't go away.

**Playing Catch**

Wilson stopped in at the DDx room when he saw Chase seated there alone, petting a rat.

"Uh, new pet?" he asked, pointing at the rat, approaching the conference table where Chase sat.

Chase looked up, noticing for the first time that Wilson was there. He smirked, shrugging and scratching the rat's back. "Namesake, actually; a weird gift from House. He named him after me because I squealed to Foreman—or squeaked, in this case. Apparently I've got more of these back home waiting for me."

"So _you_ told him," Wilson said, sitting down on the chair at the end of the table. "What punishment has House meted out for your betrayal?"

Shrugging, Chase answered, "Nothing. He _wanted_ me to tell Foreman—that was his plan all along. He wanted to know that I would keep an eye on him so that if he ever did get sick and start to lose it, someone would tell Foreman to make certain the patient was receiving the best care."

Wilson frowned, still pissed at the little game house had played on them all again. "So now you're convinced he's not sick? What changed your mind?"

"House slipped up. Yesterday in the cafeteria he was sneaking candy bars past the cashier by hiding them in a drink cup. He picked up a handful but when one of them didn't fit, he put it back rather than simply getting a bigger cup. I thought that was odd behavior for House—another symptom that something was wrong with him. Today, however, I caught him with a bigger cup and realized that he had purposely thrown the other bar back to fool me into thinking something was wrong with him when there wasn't. I called him on it. He admitted the whole thing, including the fact that he altered his bile excretions by taking St. John's Wort. It was all a test to see if any of us would tell Foreman to make certain that if House's judgment was in question someone would be looking out for the patient—and him."

Wilson nodded. It made sense, but there was still something that Wilson couldn't name that didn't seem quite right. It was on the tip of his tongue…

"Looking for House?" Chase asked, interrupting Wilson's musings. "You just missed him. He left for the night about ten minutes ago."

"Actually, I was curious about the rat," Wilson told him, rising from the chair. "It reminds me of Steve McQueen."

"Who? The actor?"

Smiling, Wilson shook his head. "A rat that House caught and treated for an infection then kept as a pet. That was the name he gave him. He looks a lot like him, so he acted as a reminder…" His voice trailed off as the thought he'd been looking for just moments ago suddenly occurred to him. Without thinking to say goodbye, Wilson hurried from the room, barely hearing Chase's goodbye as he headed for his office.

Once there, Wilson quickly packed up his briefcase and then picked up his desk phone to call House's cell. He knew that House had brought his car to work that day because it had been pouring rain earlier.

House picked up almost immediately. "For the last time, I'm not going to let you test me, Wilson!"

"Forget that," Wilson told him smoothly, glad that House couldn't see the way his trembling hands betrayed him. "There's a hockey game tonight—the Devils are hosting the Flyers. Come over to the loft and watch it with me. I'll order Chinese."

"You got any good beer there?" House asked dubiously. "I'm not drinking that piss water you buy."

"I'll pick up a six-pack of Guinness on my way home," Wilson told him. "Unless you'd rather spend the evening with Dominika?"

"Well, she _is_ softer in all the right places and smells nice, but you're prettier and don't complain when I burp," House retorted sarcastically. "I'll be there at seven-thirty?"

"Perfect," Wilson replied after rolling his eyes at House's previous remark. He hung up before House could ask any questions. Worrying his lip a little, he pulled on his overcoat, grabbed his briefcase, and left his office, locking the door behind him. He had a couple of things to attend to before he left the hospital for home.

_**~h/w~**_

House arrived at a quarter to eight carrying his helmet. The rain had stopped around noon that day so he had decided, apparently, to ride his motorcycle from his place to the loft. Wilson hid a wince; he hated that deathtrap House rode like a maniac. One distraction, one delay in reaction or motor response at the wrong time while riding that thing and his best friend could easily become his _late_ best friend. He let House inside and then headed to the kitchen while House hung up his leather jacket and helmet in the foyer.

In the kitchen Wilson waited until House was in the same area and approaching him before grabbing a can of Guinness from the fridge.

"Heads up!" he called lightly, tossing the can at House, who proceeded to bobble the can several times before it hit the floor. Wilson visibly winced this time; that had to have left a nasty knick in the hardwood.

House glared at him in annoyance before bending over to pick up the can. "Nice throw, idiot!" he sneered before tossing the can back at Wilson, who caught it in his left hand. "That beer can't be opened now for at least half an hour."

"I said 'head's up'," Wilson defended, putting that can in the fridge and pulling out two more. He walked around the island and handed one to House this time. "You were looking right at me."

"I'm _not sick_," House insisted, enunciating each syllable. "I was faking. Ask Chase—he's the one who caught me."

Wilson nodded grimly, opening his can on his way to the sofa. House beat him there and sat down, grabbing the remote control for the flatscreen before Wilson could. Wilson joined him.

"So he told me," Wilson informed him, watching House's facial expression and body language carefully as he turned on the TV and began to surf the channels. "So explain to me why you decided to fake a second life-threatening illness in one lifetime? Have you never heard the story about the boy who cried wolf?"

House found the channel he was looking for and took a swallow from his beer. "I wanted to see if anyone on my team would actually risk certain punishment by going to Foreman. I'm not sick, but if I were, I need somebody who'll keep an eye on me and stick their neck out to protect the patient if they think my medical judgment is impaired."

Wilson nodded, looking away from House to the TV but not paying attention to what was on the screen. Instead he was thinking about his next sentence, sticking his toe in the water to see how hot or cold it was. He decided it required a little more warming before he jumped in. He took another swallow of his drink to wet his dry mouth.

"Yet Chase said that you didn't punish him when you found out he was the snitch," Wilson said evenly. "That's unusually beneficent of you. Normally you enjoy torturing him. Why?"

House looked sidelong at him, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as he frowned suspiciously. "Just didn't feel like it, yet. Why all the questions? And where's the food? You did remember to order, didn't you? I'm starving."

"It's on its way," Wilson answered quickly. "So why your sudden concern about making certain that someone is there watching you in case you eventually, sometime down the road, maybe, get sick? You never seemed overly concerned about it before—I seem to remember you continuing to practice while hallucinating that my dead girlfriend was taunting you. Why now?"

House set his beer down and turned his torso slightly to face Wilson, a look of incredulity on his face. "I don't believe it—you still think I'm sick even after both Chase and I have told you that I was faking it!"

Wilson sighed and looked House in the eye. "I don't _think_ you're sick, House. I _know _it. You think I don't know what you're up to? You're showing symptoms of hepatic encephalopathy and you know that they are going to continue to get worse, but until they do, you don't want anyone hassling you about being sick and pushing you to get tested and treated. You knew that if you tried to hide it without any attempt to deceive us we would eventually pick up on it and get on your case. So you decided that you would pretend to fake being sick to throw us off the track. After all, if we think you're 'faking'," Wilson made little quotation marks in the air with his fingers, "then any further signs and symptoms, or the worsening of symptoms, that we'll see from now on we will attribute to you continuing to 'fake' an illness and we'll stop paying attention. We'll stop pressing you to get tested and treated because we'll 'know' that they aren't real. You cried wolf to test your team, sure—but you also did it so that we'll continue to believe you're crying wolf; we won't do anything about the real wolf you've snuck into the village and are trying to hide under your bed."

"And to think I did all that with hepatic encephalopathy!" House retorted sourly. "Wow, I must be an _ü__ber_genius to come up with a diabolical plan like that when I'm so sick! You are the _true_ genius, Wilson, for figuring it all out like you have."

Smirking at House, undaunted by his sarcasm, Wilson shook his head. "Mock me all you want, House, it only confirms to me that I'm right. That's why when you found out it was Chase who squealed, you were relieved enough to be satisfied with not punishing him. You were afraid that it was me and that it would place a huge burden on me that you didn't want me to face, but Chase? Well, you couldn't care less if it's a burden on him. You're focused on making certain there's someone to intervene should you lose your judgment now because you know that the timing is coming soon when it really will be needed, whereas before, when you were healthy, you didn't worry about it because you didn't need to." Wilson sighed heavily, his smirk fading and being replaced with a look of anxiety and sadness. "What I don't understand is why you don't want to be tested to know exactly what is wrong with you so something can be done about it while it's still treatable, unless…unless you already know what's wrong and there is no treatment or the treatment is so unpleasant you'd rather die than undergo it…"

House's refusal to meet his eyes was all the confirmation Wilson needed to know that he'd hit the nail on its head. A feeling of dread washed over Wilson like a Tsunami; he felt the blood drain from his face and his mouth and throat dried up, threatening to gag him.

"House—?"

"Wilson, drop it," House said, cutting him off. He still refused to looked at the oncologist, choosing to stared at the cuticles on his own hands instead—but those hands were trembling and finally, one began to flap. House quickly pulled that hand down to his lap with the other, but there was no use in trying to hide it. Wilson had already seen it.

"Grade One," Wilson said softly, his voice hoarse. He felt nauseous and swallowed hard against it. "Mild decrease in awareness with a shortened attention span, mild confusion, slowing of the ability to perform certain cognitive tasks, decreased reaction time, mild impairment of fine motor control and asterixis. Be honest with me-have you been experiencing periods of heightened irritability or depression? Don't lie to me—I can call Dominika and ask her what she's noticed."

House sighed heavily, his entire body slumping. As suddenly as that, House looked exhausted and defeated.

"This inquisition is making me irritable," House deflected, but Wilson knew that by saying that House was confessing that that had been a problem lately.

"You've always been an insomniac," Wilson continued, thinking out loud. "How about sleep inversion? Sleeping more during the day and less at night? I did catch you in the clinic with the lights off. Usually when you take your naps you don't bother turning out the lights. House?"

Grudgingly, House finally met his gaze. "Yes. Sleep inversion."

"What is wrong with you?" Wilson demanded.

"My liver is failing—does it matter why?" House answered quietly, rubbing his face with one hand. "Whether it's cirrhosis or the big 'C' the fact remains that I need a new one, and we both know I don't qualify for a transplant."

Wilson exhaled in frustration, rose from the sofa, and paced away from House, stopping at the organ and turning around to face him again, standing akimbo.

"It _does_ matter what it is," he argued, feeling the muscles in his gut tighten uncomfortably. "If it's cancer, then depending upon what kind and how advanced it is there are treatment possibilities. If it's cirrhosis then we can stop the progression so we have time to find someone compatible with you willing to undergo a living donor organ transplant. If we can't do it in this country, then we'll find one where they will allow it. You'll have to stop the Vicodin and drinking for good and right away, of course, but—"

"No." House said it with such intensity and finality that Wilson could hardly believe he'd heard him correctly and did a double-take.

"W-what? Why not?"

"It's bad enough I'm dying," House answered bluntly, both anger and fear lacing his voice, "but I'm not going to be in pain while it happens. I detox from opiates again, my last few months will be a living hell for me and anyone else who has the bad luck to end up around me during it."

"House, it's the Vicodin and alcohol that's caused the damage in the first place!" Wilson insisted, trying to reason with him when deep down he knew that his chances of successfully changing House's mind were slim to none. "You have to stop using them. We'll find alternatives for the pain in your leg, and not just extra strength Ibuprofen. I don't know what Nolan or I was thinking when we allowed that to be your only pain management option after you were discharged from Mayfield. I think we both need to have _our_ heads examined for that blunder." He approached House, sitting down on the coffee table in front of him. "This doesn't have to be a death sentence, House. It may not be easy, and, hell, maybe you will end up dying no matter what we do, but you can't just give up. You have to at least try to beat this, to survive!"

To this House said nothing. He simply looked away from Wilson, lowering his head and remaining silent. Wilson felt increasingly desperate to get through to the stubborn genius.

"Is it—is it because you're afraid that you're resisting getting help?" he asked his older friend gently. "Are you afraid to find out what it is because then it makes it real? Or do you already know what it is and you're afraid of the treatment—how painful it might be, how unpleasant the treatment will make you feel? Are you afraid it will change the way people with regard you if they know you're sick? House, _talk to me_."

House sighed, shaking his head and continuing to look at his hands lying in his lap.

Wilson shook his head in dismay, his frustration obvious in the rigidity of his body, in the tension in his forehead and jaw and the muscles of his neck. He sought his brain for a way to get House to talk and understand how important it was they acted now.

He took in a deep breath, blew it out slowly through his mouth, and tried again. "It's cancer. You don't have to answer. I know it is."

House looked up at him, bright blue eyes wide with surprise and curiosity. It was silent confirmation.

In spite of the gravity of the situation and how sick with worry and concern Wilson felt, he managed a weak, rueful smile. "You went to all this trouble because you knew it was cancer and you were afraid that if I found out you were sick and pushed to run tests on you, I'd find that out and feel the burden of treating you, or going nuts because I had to sit back, due to conflict of interest, and suffer someone else treating you. You knew I'd know exactly what to expect, what was coming in the months ahead, and you didn't want to burden me with that. Or perhaps you fear that I'll run away if it gets to be too much or too frightening. Am I correct about any of that?"

House hung his head again, but this time he nodded and released a shuddering sigh.

"No one was supposed to notice," House whispered. "I would work until I couldn't anymore, tie up some loose ends, and then take a leave of absence. Unfortunately I'm too good a teacher for my own good. I was going to tell you that I was going to visit my mother to tell her and her husband that he isn't my father, either, and to try to figure out who it really was."

Wilson couldn't help but see the logic behind House's reasoning. House knew that Wilson had a heavy caseload right now, and would be unable to accompany him.

"If it came down to the point where I was on my deathbed," House continued, "then I would have contacted you to let you know. That way you wouldn't have to be burdened with another of my health crises, or watch me deteriorate and abuse you as the pain ramped up. I wouldn't have to worry about you leaving to avoid watching me die like you had to with Amber. I didn't want you to have to go through that again."

Wilson closed his eyes briefly upon the mention of her name, and House's revelation of his fears. For all of House's selfish acts in the decades that he and Wilson had been friends, his last wish had been to spare Wilson any more pain than was absolutely necessary rather than to feed his own need to have his best friend's support during this battle for his life. As frustrated as he was at that moment, Wilson looked at House, his eyes welling up with tears at his friend's rare attempt at selflessness and compassion. He tried to blink back them back, knowing that becoming overly emotional would only cause House discomfort and embarrassment.

House lifted his head, and his eyes were wet but not shedding any of those tears. "Now you've gone and figured it out and fucked it all up," he said softly, his voice gravelly and heavy with regret. "Now I'm either going to hurt you or drive you away. Either way I'll suffer as well. Thanks a lot, genius. I liked you better when you were blissfully oblivious. You had to change while I was away in prison."

Wilson grinned at House's petulance, which he knew was the diagnostician's way of adding a little levity to the very heavy atmosphere.

"Sorry for growing a brain," Wilson joked. He placed his hand on House's shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. They didn't usually touch each other—it had been an unwritten rule in their own dysfunctional social contract—except on rare occasions; this was one of them. Wilson half-expected House to pull away from his touch, but he didn't. Instead, he surprised the younger man by placing one of his long-fingered hands on top of Wilson's and squeezing his hand ever so slightly, allowing it to linger there. Their gazes met, and they stared into each other's eyes, silently expressing his appreciation for the other person's presence in his life and just how much the other meant to him.

"This is your chance to leave before things get ugly," House told him, his voice nearly a whisper. "I won't hold a grudge."

Shaking his head, Wilson squeezed House's shoulder again. "I'm not going anywhere. We're going to get through this—successfully—together. You can't get rid of me that easily, you old bastard."

"Damn!" House replied with a genuine smile to soften his words. "And here I was hoping."

"Shut up, idiot," Wilson told him, his voice breaking. Without aforethought or warning, he leaned forward and pulled House into a hug—a tight one—holding him and unwilling to let go. He was afraid to, fearing that if he did House might just disappear into thin air right in front of his eyes. There was no way he was going to lose House without a fight; he'd invested too much time, energy, and emotion into the man to give him up now.

When House slowly lifted his arms and hugged Wilson back, tentatively at first and then tighter, burying his face in Wilson's shoulder and trembling, Wilson silently released the tears that had been held at bay. By the shuddering and trembling of the man in his arms, Wilson suspected that House was doing the same.

"Tomorrow _we_ go to Foreman and tell him the truth," Wilson whispered. "_We'll_ run so many tests that you'll feel like a fucking voodoo doll when _we're_ done with you; then _we'll_ plot our attack on whatever it is we're facing. And no, I'm not taking 'no' for an answer."

House pulled away to look Wilson in the eye. "By the way, what clued you in?"

Wilson smiled. "Chase didn't have the advantage that I did of knowing that you're allergic to St. John's Wort—something I unfortunately found out when I made you a tea once that contained it and you broke out in hives. I don't see any hives, House."

Blue eyes widened. "That's why—! You dosed my tea—! D-oh!" House grinned in appreciation. "Good catch."

_**~fin~**_


End file.
